


drove me wild

by saysthemagpie



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Breaking Up & Making Up, Friends With Benefits, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Miscommunication, Pining, this is barely Halloween themed but it DOES feature a Halloween party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27299266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saysthemagpie/pseuds/saysthemagpie
Summary: Probably he should’ve guessed that Geno was due, but Sid’s spent the past three years studiously not paying attention to the details of Geno’s sex life, and the habit’s hard to break even now.
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Comments: 19
Kudos: 236
Collections: Sid/Geno Spooky Fest 2020





	drove me wild

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snoozingkitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snoozingkitten/gifts).



> snoozingkitten, I tried to combine several elements of your suggested prompts-- including a version of "what if they were A/B/O AND vampires or something. I just want some back of neck biting/scenting." I couldn't swing non-hockey AU, but I've got your a/o, bottom Geno, and PWP with a veneer of plot. I also took you at your word when you said it didn't really need to be super Halloween-themed. hope you find something in it you enjoy! 
> 
> this is my first time writing for hockey fandom, and the first thing I've written in years, so be gentle with me. 
> 
> this takes place in the 2009-10 season, but beyond casting a cursory glance at the roster and schedule, I did zero research on this year. if you are reading and you're like "hey, I think Geno was out for that road trip," or "would this minor character really act like that?" or "was Geno's English really that good in 2009?", I encourage you to just pretend this is a canon-divergent AU where all of my authorial choices make sense. 
> 
> one million thank yous to needsmore, who cheerleaded me through a couple weeks of "I CAN'T WRITE I FORGOT HOW TO MAKE SENTENCES," and harrymynewborngiraffe, who always patiently reads one million drafts and gives me the occasional tough love push to keep going. I will thank you properly post-reveal!

Sid notices it first after morning practice, halfway through media availability. He’s answering a question about the upcoming road trip, when suddenly he loses the thread of his own thought, the words vanishing into mist. Before he can catch himself he’s turning his head, reflexively scenting the air. 

“Sid?” someone prompts, sticking a mic in his face, and Sid remembers where he is. It only takes him a second to get himself under control, and he answers the rest of the questions with renewed focus, careful not to glance across the room. 

No one’s asking any thinly veiled questions about team cohesion yet, so the shift must not be noticeable to anyone else. It’s faint enough that Sid might not have registered it himself, if he hadn’t spent the last few weeks becoming intimately familiar with the nuances of Geno’s scent. 

In the changing room everyone’s talking about the Halloween party that night. Geno’s sitting in his stall bullshitting with some of the guys, his hair still wet from the showers. He’s naked except for the skimpy white towel slung low around his waist, and he looks good—broad through the shoulders and well-fed, the season still young enough that he hasn’t shed his summer weight. Sid doesn’t go over to him, and Geno doesn’t call out to him, but he does look up, holding Sid’s gaze for a second. 

Sid’s nostrils flare slightly. He’s sure now: Geno’s heat is coming on. Tonight, probably—tomorrow morning at latest.

“Got a hot date tonight, G?” someone calls from across the room. 

“Not sure there’s any eligible singles left in Pittsburgh,” Talbot says. “You shipping them in from Philly now?” 

There’s a round of whooping and whistling at that. It’s no secret that Geno has an active social life. He’s infamous for rolling up to morning practice just a few minutes shy of late, looking well-fucked and so smug he’s practically unchirpable. 

Geno just scoffs. 

“Think you jealous, Talbot,” he says. “Don’t worry, maybe I introduce you to nice girl. You wear mask to party, right? Don’t want to scare.” 

_

Sid takes his time in the showers, standing under the spray for a long time trying to clear his head. Geno isn’t on suppressants, much to the league’s chagrin, which means he usually cycles three or four times during the regular season. Probably he should’ve guessed that Geno was due, but Sid’s spent the past three years studiously not paying attention to the details of Geno’s sex life, and the habit’s hard to break even now.

When he comes out of the showers, the locker room’s empty. Geno’s sitting in the stall next to Sid’s, texting someone. He glances up from his phone when Sid comes in, gaze raking over his body—a slow, considering look that makes Sid’s face go hot. 

“Sid,” he says, his voice a shade lower than usual. He’s wearing sweats and a faded grey t-shirt that Sid recognizes, with a little jolt, as one of his own. Geno must’ve grabbed it off his floor in the dark, mistaking it for his. 

“Hey, G,” he says. “What’s up?” 

“Take forever,” Geno says. “Think you drown in there, maybe.”

“Hey, nobody made you wait.” Sid drops his towel and starts rummaging around in his locker for his street clothes. “You want to grab lunch?” 

They’ve fallen into something of a routine since the end of training camp: sandwiches at the deli near the rink, then back to Sid’s house to watch TV and fool around for a bit before their afternoon nap. 

“No, can’t today, busy.” Geno sounds distracted, tapping away at his phone again. “See you at party?”

It’s fine. Geno has his own life; he’s not beholden to Sid’s routines, even if he indulges them more often than not. “Sure, I’ll be there. Think I’ve got a shot at that prize this year.” 

That gets Geno’s attention: he lets out a little squawk of disbelief, dropping his phone into his lap. “You hit head, Sid? Have fever, maybe? Have to tell Coach you injure, if you think you win best costume.” 

“Hey,” Sid protests. “You don’t even know what I’m going as. It could be awesome.” 

“Sid, every year, you open closet, say, Hm, where is most boring outfit?” Geno says, warming to his subject. “Bet you put on suit, get briefcase, go as tax lawyer. Make the rookies cry, they so scared.” 

“I guess you’ll just have to wait and see, eh?” Sid says, laughing, and Geno grins up at him. 

His nose has never been particularly sensitive, but he can smell how pleased Geno is, the familiar undertones of his scent made richer and fuller-bodied by the first stirrings of preheat. Sid feels a surge of sudden affection, warmth blossoming in his chest. 

Something of it must show in his face, because Geno’s smile falters. “Sid—” 

Luckily, Sid’s saved by a great clattering in the hallway outside, followed by the sound of Dana cursing fluently. Sid manages a weak laugh, though he can’t quite bring himself to meet Geno’s eyes again. 

“See you tonight,” he says, fumbling for his keys. “Uh, at the party, I mean. Bye, G.” 

_

At home he heats up some leftover lasagna and settles in to watch some tape Dan’s sent over. 

It’s hard to concentrate. He keeps having to rewind and watch the same plays over again, his attention wandering. Everything feels just a little off-kilter, like there’s somewhere he’s meant to be, or something important he’s forgetting to do. He keeps turning his head, looking for something. It takes him a while to realize it’s Geno’s scent he keeps catching—faint but unmistakable, clinging to the blankets he likes to burrow under when they watch TV together on the couch.

Which, great. Sid grabs the nearest throw pillow and buries his face in it, stifling his groan. 

Most of the time he’s good at not being so— _weird_ about Geno. He’s not an idiot; he knows what people say about them. To hear Twitter tell it, unbonded alphas like Sid can barely manage to tie their skates in Geno’s presence, much less win hockey games. 

It’s bullshit, obviously. It always has been, but now at least they’ve got a Cup to prove it. Geno just smells like Geno. Sid’s never found his scent distracting—or okay, fine: he’s never found it any more distracting than Geno’s laugh, or the delight he takes in chirping Sid, or his mile-long legs in tiny shorts, or his beautiful, beautiful hockey, which still leaves Sid embarrassingly breathless sometimes. 

But he’s a professional, not to mention pretty good at putting things away in locked boxes in his mind and never opening them again. Geno’s his teammate and his friend. There are few people Sid respects more, and no one he’d rather have next to him on the bench.

This new development in their relationship—the one where sometimes, Geno follows him home after practice, and stays through dinner, and lets Sid take him to bed after—doesn’t change any of that.

It’s just. He can admit it’s been getting harder, lately, to keep the old lines clear in his mind.  
_

He naps fitfully through the late afternoon, tossing and turning in his too-big bed. He dreams he’s in the locker room, listening to his old Rimouski coach giving a speech. Geno’s leaning against him, a warm heavy weight, murmuring something unintelligible in his ear. He thinks it’s Russian, maybe, but he _knows_ it’s filthy, from the way Geno’s voice caresses each syllable, his big broad hand inching up Sid’s thigh. He’s asking for something, and Sid’s going to give it to him: whatever it is, however he wants it. 

He jolts awake in the dark, his heart pounding. For a brief, panicky moment he’s afraid he’s slept through his alarm. But no: it’s only six, still a couple hours till the party. 

Sid drops his phone onto his chest and exhales. 

Geno isn’t going to ask him. Heat’s for bonded pairs, or people heading in that direction. And Geno’s not—he doesn’t want those things, not from Sid, not from anyone. He’s heard Geno say as much dozens of times in the past few years, sometimes laughing, sometimes defiant, as he answers the same tired questions from the press. No, he’s not looking for an alpha. No, he doesn’t intend to bond. Not now, not ever. 

It doesn’t matter what Sid’s stupid instincts are telling him. He isn’t going to be the exception. 

Sid rolls over onto his stomach and presses his face into the pillow, breathing in. He thinks about Geno grinning up at him in the locker room, that sly look in his eyes. His traitorous heart thinks: _maybe_.

_

Mario always rents out a bar downtown for the team Halloween party, complete with a DJ and a big catered spread. Officially the party starts at eight—late enough that the parents can take their kids trick-or-treating, but early enough that they can get drunk, sober up a little, and be home to relieve the babysitter by midnight. Most of the younger guys spend the afternoon pregaming, though, and when Sid shows up at a quarter past things are well underway. 

“Sid!” Cooke yells. “What are you supposed to be, a priest?” 

Sid grins in response, revealing the realistic-looking rubber fangs he’d ordered online a few days earlier. The entire group groans. 

“I don’t think you even try,” Jordy says. 

“Hey, I paid for rush shipping,” Sid says, though it comes out a little garbled around the fangs. This, predictably, sets off a fresh round of mockery. Sid waves it off, laughing. He’s pretty sure the guys would be more disappointed if he actually made an effort, thus depriving them of one of their favorite seasonal chirping opportunities. 

It takes him forever to make his way across the room to the bar. By the time he has a beer in hand, he’s been called upon to admire half a dozen couples costumes and make polite small talk with as many wives and girlfriends, lisping slightly around the fangs the whole time. 

He seeks refuge by the food table, where the French Canadians have set up camp. 

“Please don’t say anything about the fangs,” he says, spitting them out discreetly into a paper napkin. “And please just tell me what you’re supposed to be. I can’t guess any more. I don’t think I’ve seen enough movies.” 

“I think you look very nice,” Vero says, her arm linked through Flower’s. “He’s Robin, Sid.” 

“Don’t bother,” Flower says. “It was made after the Second World War.” 

“Speaking of soldiers,” Duper says, nodding over Sid’s shoulder. Sid turns to look, and almost drops his plate of cheesecake brownies. 

Geno’s leaning against the bar, talking with Brooks and his girlfriend. He’s dressed in what appears to be full military dress—a khaki drill jacket, complete with a little field service cap perched rakishly on his hair. He’s left his uniform unbuttoned nearly to his navel. 

“Oh my,” Vero says, hiding a smile behind her wine glass. 

“Oh my, indeed,” Flower says, making no effort whatsoever to conceal his delight. “Oi, Geno!” 

Geno grins in their direction, but, thankfully, doesn’t seem to be in the mood to be summoned. Sid fumbles with his beer, not quite trusting himself to make eye contact. 

He can smell Geno from here, which means probably half the bar can, too. Geno’s always been like that, though—completely unapologetic, and, as far as Sid can tell, utterly immune to embarrassment. 

“Well, this should be interesting,” Kris says, after a moment. He doesn’t look as gleeful as Flower does, though; Sid thinks he looks almost worried.  
_

Interesting is one word for it, Sid thinks an hour later, despairingly. _Torturous_ might be closer to the mark. 

So far Geno hasn’t so much as acknowledged him, though Sid’s watched him make slow, lazy circles around the room, working the crowd. He’d chatted with Gonch for a bit, hammed it up with Dana and his wife, and then spent a couple songs out on the floor with Brooks’s girlfriend, pulling a number of dance moves Sid found so personally devastating he had to self-soothe with another brownie. 

He’s not going to go over to him. Geno knows exactly where he is—it would be hard to so consistently avoid crossing Sid’s path otherwise. He’ll come on his own time, or not at all. 

Sid gets his reward, eventually.

“And what are you supposed to be,” Flower says. “A shameless hussy?” 

Geno drapes himself along the line of Sid’s back. He smells incredible. Sid can’t see his face but he can feel him grinning. 

“Sid,” he says. “Kuni need you.” 

“Oh, I’m sure it’s an emergency,” Flower says dryly. 

Sid’s pretty sure they aren’t telling other people. Flower knows, of course, because he has an uncanny ability to ferret out all of Sid’s secrets just by looking at him. He seems to find the whole thing hilarious. 

“Yes, urgent.” Geno nuzzles into the crook of Sid’s shoulder, breathing hotly against his neck. He isn’t being subtle, that’s for sure. “Come on, I bring.” 

_

Geno steers him across the bar with his hands on Sid’s hips, bulldozing past anyone who looks like they might want to trap Sid in conversation. Probably Sid should feel guilty about not fulfilling his captainly duties, but it’s hard to imagine he’d be much good at small talk right now. All he can think about is how big Geno’s hands are, how sure his grip, and how absolutely, mind-meltingly delicious he smells this close to heat. 

“Are we supposed to be back here?” Sid says dubiously, as he’s ushered him down a hallway and through a door marked PRIVATE, into what appears to be a large utility closet.

“Says private,” Geno says, unconcerned. “So nobody bother us. Come here.” 

He pulls Sid against him and nuzzles his face into Sid’s shoulder, getting his scent all over him. If he wants to keep things quiet between them—well, there won’t be a guy left on the team who hasn’t figured it out by the end of the night. 

It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Maybe Geno just wants to fool around a little, take the edge off before he goes home. 

“Guess there’s no emergency, eh?” 

“Mm, big crisis.” Geno parts his legs so Sid can nudge a thigh between them. “Huge.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sid says. “Feels pretty average to me.” 

Geno makes a scandalized noise—“You think I talk about dick? So rude, Sid”—though he’s already grinding against Sid’s thigh. He smells so good, and looks it too, flushed with the beginnings of his heat. Like this, pressed up against him, Sid can feel him shivering, fine little tremors that just keep coming, like maybe Geno’s deeper into it than he’d seemed. 

“Hey,” he says. “Let me see your costume.” 

Geno rolls his eyes, but he lets Sid step back to examine his costume in the dim light.

“This is incredible,” Sid says, and means it. “Hang on, is this a Canadian uniform?” 

Geno looks sly. “Maybe. You like?”

“It’s perfect,” Sid marvels, running his fingers over the chevrons. “Did you have this custom made?” 

“Can’t tell,” Geno says. “You find out, might have good costume next year. Break team’s heart.” 

Sid slides a hand up his chest, tangling his fingers in the thin silver chain of Geno’s dog tags. “Pretty sure they keep the shirts buttoned.” 

“Pretty sure you not complain,” Geno retorts, and pulls him in for a kiss. 

It’s a little awkward with the fangs in, but Geno grabs his wrist when he tries to take them out. 

“Full experience,” he says, and proceeds to kiss him, slow and deep, coaxing Sid’s mouth open so he can run the tip of his tongue teasingly over the pointed fangs. 

Sid’s never been all that crazy about kissing—it’s fine, obviously, but it’s always felt like more of a warmup for the main event. But Geno loves it, maybe as much as anything else they do. They’ve spent whole lazy afternoons in Sid’s bed making out like teenagers, slow and sloppy and wet, rubbing off against each other through their boxers. 

“Okay, bite,” Geno orders, demanding as ever, and Sid’s only too happy to oblige, nipping at his jaw. Geno makes a frustrated noise, pushing Sid’s head down. “No, like vampire,” he says, and Sid huffs out a laugh. Roleplay’s not really his thing, but he likes it when Geno gets bossy in bed. Geno always knows what he wants, and exactly how he wants it, and he’s pretty shameless about getting it. 

He tests the fangs carefully against Geno’s skin, and then, sensing only eagerness, bites down a little harder. It probably doesn’t feel like much of anything—he can’t get much of a purchase on his skin—but he gives it his best shot, sucking lightly at Geno’s throat to create a sensation like drawing blood. 

Geno shivers, leaning his head back against the wall. “Taste good,” he says, less a question than a smug statement of fact. “Want to drink always, so greedy.” 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re irresistible,” Sid says, but Geno’s not wrong. He does feel greedy, half drunk on the smell of him, close and hot and aroused. 

Actually, it’s probably a good thing he can’t bite him for real. Sid’s instincts are already going haywire, yammering at him to haul Geno down and claim him right here amidst the mops and the buckets and the jugs of industrial-strength bleach. He’s not sure he could handle seeing the imprint of his teeth on Geno’s throat, inches from where someone might leave a mating bite. 

“G,” he says. “You’re cutting it pretty close, aren’t you?” 

Geno looks at him, his eyes dark. “Maybe I come looking,” he says. “Hope I find big dumb alpha, give me his knot.” 

Sid’s heart is beating a little faster. He doesn’t think Geno’s teasing, but he wants to make sure he’s reading the play. “Doesn’t matter who, eh? You need it that bad?”

Geno looks down, hooking his fingers through Sid’s belt loops. There’s a faint pink flush in his cheeks, and for the first time he looks uncertain. 

“No, I’m picky,” he says. “Only want best. You know where I find?” 

Sid breathes out. He slides his hands up Geno’s sides, splaying his fingers wide and possessive over his ribs. Geno shivers a little, but he leans into the touch. 

They’re going to do this, then. 

“Yeah,” he says. “You should pick me.” 

_

Geno’s car is parked in valet, though the prospect of abandoning it overnight doesn’t seem to faze him. He’s insistent, now that it’s decided, and he wants Sid to drive him. 

“Wait, hang on.” Sid shakes his head, trying to clear it. “We probably shouldn’t leave together. Not when you’re, uh—you know. People might talk.”

Geno looks confused for a moment. Then he seems to get it, his expression smoothing over.

“Okay,” he says, taking a step away from Sid. “I call cab.”

“No,” Sid says, a little more forcefully than he intends. He feels his cheeks go pink, and says, stumbling over his words a little, “I mean—you don’t have to do that. Just wait here a few minutes while I get the car. I’ll pick you up around the corner.” 

Most of the team’s gathered around the beer pong tables set up near the back, cheering on a rookie faceoff. Sid skirts the edge of the room, trying not to look either too approachable or too obviously engaged in subterfuge. 

A hand lands on his shoulder. “There you are,” Kris says. “We thought you’d left.” 

“I’m heading out, actually,” Sid says, and fumbles for an excuse. “Uh—not feeling too hot. Think I’m coming down with something.” 

Kris narrows his eyes. “Really.” 

Across the bar, Geno emerges from the back hallway, smoothing a hand over his mussed hair and looking around. 

Kris follows his gaze. He frowns. 

“Sid,” he says. “Have you really thought this through?” 

Sid feels a little stung by that, though he can’t blame Kris for worrying. Geno’s always treated his own bad press with total disdain—if anything, being lectured for immodesty or for turning the heads of young unbonded alphas or whatever bile Don Cherry’s spewing that week only seems to fuel him. 

But Kris knows as well as anyone how much crap Geno gets. Sid’s always been conscious of how it looks: the team’s two young rising stars, both unbonded. Those first couple years, he was so careful. Careful not to spend too much time with Geno alone, or to touch him too much off the ice, or even to show up to team events without a date when Geno was single. Rumors spread fast in the league, and he was determined not to make Geno’s life any more difficult. 

Maybe if he were a better person—a better captain—he’d walk away now. 

Geno catches his eye across the room. He quirks an eyebrow. 

“It’s fine,” Sid says. “It’s not going to affect the team.” 

Kris sighs. “Okay,” he says. “Just be careful.”  
_

He hurries to get the car from the valet. Geno’s waiting for him around the corner, shivering dramatically in his big puffy parka. 

“Take so long, I’m freeze,” he complains, sliding into the passenger seat. Sid rolls his eyes—the temperature’s barely dipped under 50—but he’s already switched the heat on full blast. Geno makes a pleased noise, making a big production of warming his hands over the vents. 

Sid sneaks a look at him while he’s distracted. His cheeks are flushed pink, his eyes fever-bright, but he still seems like himself. 

Geno complains most of the way home about Sid’s driving (“so _slow_ , Sid, I’m fall asleep”), shifting restlessly in his seat. The closer they get to the house, though, the quieter he gets. When Sid glances over at him, he’s staring out the window, his expression more serious than it’s been all night. 

Inside the house Geno doesn’t take his coat off right away. He hangs back near the door, looking around, and Sid feels suddenly awkward, unsure of how Geno wants to play it. 

He’s only seen one past girlfriend through heat, years ago, and it hadn’t been a rousing success. Heat pheromones weren’t magic, the way the movies made it seem. They made your partner more alluring, but they didn’t transform you into a smooth romantic lead, the kind of alpha who was effortlessly in sync with their omega, perfectly attuned to their needs. It had felt like he was fumbling his way through, always a beat behind, so in his own head it was a struggle to even knot. The relationship had never really recovered, though they’d limped along for another month or two before calling it quits. 

He doesn’t want this to feel like that, even if it’s just casual. Even if it doesn’t mean all the things Sid wants it to. 

He clears his throat. “You feeling okay?” he says. “I didn’t, uh—take too much?” He touches the side of his throat with his fingertips. 

Geno’s eyebrows knit together in confusion for a second before he gets it. He reaches up to rub at the bite mark with his fingers, the corner of his mouth twitching up. 

“No, is okay,” he says. “I think—can have more, if you want.” 

“Yeah?” Sid says, a little breathless. “Should probably, um—lie down first. In case you get dizzy.” 

“So consider,” Geno says, fluttering his eyelashes, and Sid can’t help it; he laughs aloud, the tension broken. 

_

In the bedroom he switches on the bedside lamp, soft yellow light blanketing the room. Geno trails in after him, looking around as if he’s seeing it for the first time. 

“Sleep in coffin?” he says, widening his eyes, a pretty unsubtle chirp at Sid’s heavy blackout curtains. Well, they’re an eyesore, but Sid likes to be able to nap whenever he wants. 

“You’re hilarious,” he says. “Come here.” 

Geno comes easily, letting Sid pull him in for another kiss. He tastes lightly of peppermint now, and for some reason it steadies Sid—the thought of Geno surreptitiously sucking on a breath mint, waiting for Sid on the curb. 

“Tell me how you pick,” Geno murmurs against his mouth. “You see me, know I’m best for drink from?”

“I could smell you,” Sid says. “As soon as you walked in, before I even saw you.” 

“You like?” 

He rubs his face against Geno’s throat in response, breathing him in. He likes it so much, and always has. It’s not just pheromones, either: it’s the fancy shampoo Geno brings back from Russia every fall, and the smell of cold metal Sid associates with the rink, and beneath it all the rich musky scent that’s just Geno, untainted by the chemical odor of scent blockers. 

“Okay,” Geno says, batting at him impatiently. “Off, off.” 

“Yes, sir,” Sid says, and sets to work unbuttoning the rest of Geno’s uniform top. Geno likes it when Sid undresses him, though it’s one of the few things he’s shy about asking for. It had surprised Sid a little at first: it’s more traditional than he would’ve expected of Geno, and a little more intimate. 

He’d been surprised to discover how much he liked it, too—the casual dominance of it; the thrill of touching Geno everywhere, slow and deliberate, under the guise of taking off his clothes. Most of the traditional courtship behaviors make him feel stiff and awkward, too conscious of the script he’s meant to be following. With Geno it’s different. There’s something hot about watching him play at docility, as if he isn’t every bit as willful as Sid, as ruthless in the pursuit of what he wants. 

He makes Geno sit down on the edge of the bed and gets down on his knees so he can take his boots off, unbuckling them carefully and setting them aside. When he glances up, Geno’s watching him intently, his eyes dark. 

“What,” Sid says, suddenly self-conscious. 

Geno draws his knees closer, his thighs bracketing Sid in. He looks at him a moment longer, then leans forward and kisses him—lightly, almost sweetly, just a soft brush of lips. 

“What do you want?” Sid asks, drawing back. 

“Can’t decide,” Geno says. “In heat, Sid, brain so confuse.” He swoons back onto the bed, flinging his arm over his eyes like a damsel in distress. The effect is ruined slightly when he peeks out from under his arm. “But maybe you get naked, okay?”

Sid hurries to comply. By the time he’s finished, Geno’s wriggled out of his pants, kicking them off the bed. Sprawled out against the pillows, he looks sinful, like something out of Sid’s guiltiest, most furtive fantasies. He’s got one knee drawn up to his chest, stroking himself lazily as he watches Sid. 

Sid crawls over to him, settling between his legs. He can smell how wet Geno is already, his body making itself ready. 

When he touches him, finally, Geno sighs, his thighs falling wider apart. Sid bends his head and breathes him in, nosing at the crease of Geno’s hip. 

He sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of Geno’s inner thigh. Geno groans and fists a hand in Sid’s hair, hips canting up. Sid pins his hips down, prizing his legs apart. 

“Sid,” Geno gasps, squirming under him. “Sid—”

“Shh,” Sid murmurs, and lowers his head again, sucking a tender red mark onto Geno’s skin. He settles into a kind of rhythm, fingering him slow and deep as he alternates between sucking and biting and sucking again, leaving a string of wet red marks higher and higher up Geno’s thigh. 

Geno’s chest is heaving by the time Sid takes him into his mouth, scissoring his fingers deep inside him. He’s so wet—Sid’s never seen him like this, slick smearing the inside of his thighs, soaking the sheet. He’ll take a knot so easily, and just the thought of has Sid rolling his hips into the mattress. 

“Don’t come,” Geno says, and maybe it’s meant to sound like a command, but it comes out a little anxious. He pulls Sid up to kiss him again, sucking gently at his tongue, tasting himself on Sid’s mouth. He’s trembling now, skin dewy with sweat, eyes fever-bright. 

“How are you feeling?” Sid says, checking in. 

“Bad, Sid,” Geno groans, and Sid experiences a flicker of panic before Geno goes on: “Nobody fuck me, maybe I’m die.” 

Sid rolls his eyes. “Get up, then,” he says, and Geno scrambles to comply, rolling over and pushing up onto all fours. Sid slaps his ass, half in jest, but Geno just groans, drops down onto his elbows and presents—face down, ass up, every line of his body an invitation. 

“Please,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice now, the first real hint of desperation. 

Sid crawls up the bed to him, and then hesitates. “Geno,” he says. “Are you—”

Geno lifts his head, glaring at him over his shoulder. “You need invitation, Sid? Need handwrite letter? _Fuck_ me.”

“Bossy,” Sid says, but he doesn’t make him wait any longer. He grabs him by the hips and hitches them up for the perfect angle, sinking into him with one smooth push. 

Geno groans, low, the muscles in his back tensing and relaxing again, body going heavy and pliant as he opens up so sweet and filthy on Sid’s cock. He’s so hot inside, and so slick it’s making something short-circuit in Sid’s brain. 

He’s not going to last long, but he can do a little better than blindly rutting into him. He tightens his grip on Geno’s waist, fingernails digging into the meat of his hips, and starts driving into him, rough and unrelenting, a rhythm that never fails makes Geno come completely undone. He can feel that Geno’s close—can feel the way he’s shuddering beneath Sid, his fat, heavy cock dragging against the bedsheets with every thrust. 

Sid doesn’t want him to come like that. He wants, selfishly, for Geno to come on his knot. He drags him upright, his chest flush against Geno’s back, thrusting up into him. 

“Yes,” Geno says, and then a torrent of Russian, rocking back into the cradle of Sid’s hips, taking him deeper. 

“G,” Sid gasps. “Fuck, Geno, I’m gonna—” His knot’s starting to swell. He grinds up one last time, feeling Geno’s rim stretched impossibly tight around him, and then Geno cries out and comes, untouched, dick twitching hard against his belly. 

Sid’s careful with him, after: Geno’s so deep under he’s almost nonverbal, his head lolling back against Sid’s shoulder. He shifts them so they’re lying on their sides, Sid’s leg slung over Geno’s, to accommodate where their bodies are still locked together. 

It’s been years since Sid knotted outside of his rut. He feels almost drunk on sensation, shivery all over; he can feel himself coming, still, deep inside Geno’s body. 

He can tell when Geno starts to resurface, blinking all honeyed and slow. 

“Hey,” Sid says softly, nosing at his ear. “You okay?” 

“Mm,” Geno says in answer. He reaches back, sliding a hand over Sid’s hip. “Feel good, Sid.” 

It won’t hit him again this hard—the first wave is always the deepest, the first knot the most intense. Sid likes him like this, though: sleepy and sated, that blissed-out little smile on his face. 

“How long?” 

Sid shifts a little, assessing.

“Not long,” he says. “Few more minutes, maybe.”

They’re both quiet for a while. Geno seems drowsy and content, tracing light circles on Sid’s forearm with his fingertips. Sid buries his face in the crook of Geno’s shoulder and lets himself breathe him in, a guilty indulgence. He can’t stop himself from kissing Geno’s neck a little, either, licking gently at the spot on his throat where he might soothe a mating bite. 

He still doesn’t understand why Geno’s made an exception for him. Some part of him feels like he’s dreaming still. It had felt like a dream that first time, the night of the Cup party last June, when Geno had lured him into the Lemieux family laundry room and crowded him up against the dryer and kissed him like that was a thing they did, like he’d been waiting forever to do it. Sid had been sunburned and champagne-drunk, fizzing over with bright happiness, and it seemed like one more piece of incredible, impossible good luck—Geno’s mouth against his, hot and lush, his big hand cupping Sid through the front of his swim trunks. 

Two days later Geno flew back to Moscow, and Sid went home to Cole Harbor. They’d barely talked all summer—just a few texts about workouts, Geno emailing him a couple photos from his Cup parade back in Magnitogorsk. Sid had spent the offseason running sand sprints and teaching children to shoot pucks and not thinking, not even a little bit, about Geno returning in the fall with a pretty beta girlfriend in tow. 

Geno hadn’t. Instead he’d followed Sid home after the team picnic and invited himself in. And now it’s October—November, almost—and Sid still has no idea what they’re doing, or how long he has until it stops. 

_

After, Sid brings up a little tray of snacks and two bottles of Geno’s favorite Gatorade. Fruit punch is objectively the worst flavor, but he’s been adding it to his grocery delivery for weeks now, just for the pleased look on Geno’s face when he opens Sid’s fridge and finds it there. 

They eat sprawled out in bed. Geno’s in a languid mood, loose-limbed and relaxed in the lull before the next wave, letting Sid feed him fruit and little cubes of cheese by hand. Hand-feeding is traditional, though Sid’s never really liked how stiff and formal it feels. But Geno’s hard to resist, nipping at Sid’s fingers and making demanding noises until Sid, laughing, pops a cheese cube into his open mouth. 

They talk a little, about nothing in particular. Geno ruthlessly dissects each couple’s Halloween costumes like the bitchy host of a reality fashion show, running a hand idly up and down Sid’s calf as he talks. Sid sits propped up against the pillows, half listening and half watching Geno’s face and hands, the big expressive gestures he makes when English fails to communicate the nuances of his approval or disdain. He never needs a lot of encouragement once he gets going, just an appreciative audience. 

It hasn’t even been two months, but it already feels dangerously familiar: Geno in Sid’s bed, rumpled and relaxed, glowing with lazy post-coital satisfaction. Sid’s gaze keeps snagging on Geno’s throat, where he’d pretended to bite him back at the bar. 

It hadn’t even left a mark. He wishes he had taken the fangs out and given Geno a hickey, at least—something for the team to chirp him for tomorrow at practice. Something for Sid to look at, after, and remember that this was real. 

Geno wraps a hand around Sid’s ankle, thumb rubbing over his ankle bone. “Penny for thoughts?”

“Not worth that much,” Sid says, and rolls over to kiss him, covering Geno’s body with his own. 

Sid’s heart is strong. He can survive even this. 

_

The last time is just after dawn, slow sleepy sex as the last of Geno’s heat spends itself. 

This time Sid knots him on his back. Geno smiles up at him the whole time, his expression soft and open. His face is puffy with sleep, a crease running along his left cheek from the pillow. Sid knows that there are more handsome men in the world, maybe even on the team, but the thought of them leaves him cold. It’s Geno he wants—has wanted for years, maybe: a desire that has never sputtered out, only burned stronger and surer, a steady unwavering flame. 

Geno sticks his fingers in Sid’s mouth, feeling at his teeth. 

“I’m not actually a vampire, you know,” Sid says.

“Hm,” Geno says, like he’ll be the judge of that. 

But he lets his fingers slip out of Sid’s mouth so Sid can kiss him again, slow and deep, sucking gently at his tongue until Geno’s rolling his hips in lazy little circles again, working himself on Sid’s knot. Probably he won’t come again, but Sid doesn’t think it bothers him. Geno likes feeling good, likes luxuriating in pleasure, and maybe he’s got the right idea. Maybe some things are worth feeling, even if you know they aren’t going anywhere. 

After a while Geno draws back and looks at him. “Sid,” he says, sounding unbearably fond, and Sid feels exposed, suddenly, afraid that everything he’s feeling was written on his face. 

It’s Geno who looks away first. He tilts his face to the side, baring the pale expanse of his throat. 

“Maybe you bite again,” he says. “Maybe—want keep me.”

It feels like a slap in the face. Sid goes hot all over, then cold. He has to shut his eyes, trying to breathe through it. 

Geno must feel him tense. “Sid?” he asks, tentative, and Sid makes himself open his eyes. 

Geno looks—shy, almost, but he’s smiling still, like they’re both in on the joke. And suddenly Sid can’t bear the thought of doing sexy vampire roleplay anymore. It’s too close to what he actually wants, which is to claim Geno in some visible and permanent way, so that everyone who looks at him knows right away that he’s Sid’s. 

But Geno doesn’t want him like that, and Sid—it isn’t a game to him. 

“Come on,” he says. “Quit messing around.” 

It comes out sharper than he means it to. Geno’s eyes widen, and then his expression goes blank, that tender open look slamming shut. 

Guilt sours in Sid’s stomach. It’s not Geno’s fault. Sid’s the one who can’t play the game anymore, who can’t keep things light and relaxed and easy.

“G,” he says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—I’m just tired.”

“Okay, so go sleep.” Geno shoves at Sid’s shoulder, trying to push him off. “It’s done, okay? I need shower.”

“Hey, wait, hang on,” Sid says, a little alarmed. “You’ll hurt yourself. Give it a minute, okay?” 

Geno scowls, but he stops trying to roll away, at least. His body language is stiff, like he’s holding himself rigidly still, limiting the points of contact between them. “Take so long,” he complains. “Why we even do? So messy, it’s stupid.”

Sid doesn’t have anything to say to that. He fixes his gaze on a point over Geno’s shoulder, trying to will himself soft. He can feel himself coming still; can feel the way Geno’s clenching around him, working his knot in little rhythmic pulses: his body drawing him in deeper, so he can push Sid away sooner. 

Geno’s right: it’s so stupidly messy, all of it. He focuses on Geno’s breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and waits for it to be finished.  
_

Geno showers in one of the guest rooms down the hall instead of the master bath, and Sid tries not to feel wrenched open by it. He knows it’s just hormones, the post-heat crash making everything seem so much bleaker and more impossible. He strips off the sheets, shoving them into his hamper to deal with later, and neatly remakes the bed.

When Geno comes back, he’s wearing one of Sid’s old stretched-out Rimouski t-shirts, his long skinny legs bare. He gets into bed without a word, his back to Sid, and pulls the duvet up to his face. 

His scent is off—it’s gone darker, shot through with something acrid—though Sid doesn’t need his nose to tell him Geno’s angry. He feels like he’s missing something, like he lost the thread somewhere. But he’s too tired to pursue it further, and if he’s being honest, a little too sick at heart right now to fix it.

Still: his instincts won’t let him settle. The urge to touch Geno, to reestablish skin contact, is almost overwhelming. He lies awake in the dark, listening to the rasp of Geno’s breathing. He can tell he’s not asleep either. 

Sid rolls over. He curls up against Geno’s back—not touching him, but close enough that he can feel the heat of his body. After a moment he reaches out in the dark, his knuckles brushing lightly against Geno’s back. 

Geno sighs, but he doesn’t pull away. 

“Sleep, Sid,” he says, and finally, Sid does. 

_

He wakes up alone. The other half of the bed is empty, the sheets cold. Even lying there, staring up at the ceiling, he can tell the house is empty. 

He brushes his teeth more vigorously than usual, a sour taste lingering in his mouth, and spits into the sink. Seven weeks, and Geno doesn’t even keep a toothbrush here. He’s pretty sure Geno just uses his, though when he once brought it up Geno responded with great indignation, as if Sid had accused him of drowning kittens for sport. 

He checks his texts. Nothing from Geno. He must’ve walked home, though the weather’s turned overnight, cold enough that there’s a thin layer of frost on the grass. 

Dan’s canceled the team meeting, so Sid’s there a good hour before the rest of the team start trickling in. He warms up on the bike, tapes his sticks, and stops by the trainers to get them to look at his wrist. He’d only managed a couple hours of sleep, and he feels wrung-out, and sorrier for himself than he’d normally tolerate. 

Most of the guys look a little worse for wear on the ice. Brooks looks faintly green, and keeps having to bend over to check his skates. 

Oddly enough, Geno’s the only one who seems to be running on a full tank of gas. If he’s tired, he doesn’t show it—except that he’s even more of a bully than usual, terrorizing the call-ups and chirping the old guys with a little more of an edge than usual. They divide up for a scrimmage near the end of practice, Geno opposing Sid. Sid tries to catch his eye, silently telegraphing his apology, but Geno just uses his distraction to handily win the faceoff. He plays with the same intensity he might bring to game seven of the conference finals, blowing past Sid on the ice and scoring a last-minute wrister from an impossible angle. 

So he’s angry, still. 

Sid stays on the ice for a while after practice, because he wants to run a couple extra drills, not because he’s hoping to avoid Flower’s judgmental eyebrows and Kris’s concerned looks in the locker room. He expects Geno to clear out with the rest of the guys, but Geno just stays down at the other end of the rink practicing his slapshots, alternating between shooting and skating furious laps around his half of the ice, like a big angry cat marking off the edges of his territory. 

Sid caves first—because he’s exhausted, but also because Geno still smells amazing, even under his layers of gear, and it’s driving him a little crazy. The locker room has long since cleared out. He takes one of the single occupancy showers tucked away way in the back, so Geno can have his space. 

He’s rinsing shampoo out of his hair when someone snaps the flimsy shower curtain open. Sid yelps in surprise as Geno pushes into the stall. 

“G?” he says, and Geno, scowling ferociously, crowds him up against the tile and kisses him. 

It’s a brutal kiss—Sid can feel the snarl in it, the threat of teeth, but his body only seems to register that it’s Geno. Relief breaks over him like a tidal wave, flooding his whole body, his knees almost buckling on impact. Geno holds him up, pinning him naked and squirming and slippery wet to the wall, and that’s good, that’s right, the skin contact making Sid’s whole body sing. 

“Geno,” he gasps. 

“Shut mouth,” Geno growls, fisting a hand in Sid’s wet curls, dragging his head back to deepen the kiss. Sid’s head is spinning. He can’t believe how good Geno smells, how full and rich and irresistible, almost like he’s still— 

And oh, Sid thinks, confusion bleeding away into understanding. 

It happens sometimes, if a heat with an alpha doesn’t lead to a bond. One last flareup of hormones, a sort of pseudo-heat a day or two after the cycle ends. Sid remembers learning about it in health class, all the teenage alphas gathered together for an awkward guest lecture on proper aftercare. He feels a little stab of guilt—Geno must’ve been uncomfortable all through practice, his body craving contact with his alpha.

No, Sid thinks, pulling himself up short. Not his alpha, just the one who happened to see him through his heat. 

Geno makes a frustrated noise, nuzzling into Sid’s neck. 

“Easy,” Sid murmurs. “C’mere, I’ve got you.” 

Geno’s body language is stiff still, wary, but he lets Sid maneuver him out of the shower spray, turning them so Geno’s facing the wall, his palms flat against the tile. Sid shuffles in against his back, sliding a soothing hand over Geno’s hip. 

“Have to keep quiet for me, okay?” he says, pressing a kiss to Geno’s left shoulder blade. Geno makes a huffy little noise at that, but he bites his lip when Sid slips his other hand between Geno’s legs, rubbing at his hole. He’s tender and open there still, sticky wet with slick, Sid’s two fingers sinking into him with only the barest resistance. 

“So good, G,” Sid murmurs. “You feel incredible, Jesus.” 

“Maybe _you_ keep quiet,” Geno grumbles, “always talk, talk, talk.” His expression is murderous still, but as Sid begins to fuck him slowly with his fingers he can feel Geno starting to melt, relaxing by slow degrees in Sid’s arms. 

Sid leans his forehead against Geno’s shoulder and tries to focus only on the way Geno feels, velvety smooth and so hot, clenching around his fingers. God: he wants him so much, even like this—maybe especially like this, scowling and inscrutable and impossible to please, but so easy for it still, for Sid’s fingers inside him, Sid’s breath hot against his neck. 

He doesn’t tease, or draw it out, much as he might want to. He tries to treat it for what it is: a coda, rather than a continuation. 

Sid used to think he knew himself pretty well. He knows his body, after all: knows the precise weight every muscle can bear, the torsion each joint can endure, the explosive power his frame can unleash or absorb. He’s mapped its limitations and plunged its reserves of unexpected strength; learned when to demand and when to coax, and—after long struggle—when to accept that he can go no further. Compared to the fascinating intricacies of the body, his emotions have never seemed all that complex. 

He understands now how stupid he’s been. How stunningly ignorant of his own heart, to think he could let himself have a little of this and not want it all. 

“Okay, please,” Geno says, his eyes screwed shut. He’s trembling, wracked with little shivers. “Sid, _davai_.” 

They fuck like that: Geno bracing himself against the wall, grinding back into the cradle of Sid’s hips, taking him deeper with each slow roll of his hips. The water’s just shy of too hot, steam rising around them, their bodies slick with sweat. Sid feels overheated and dizzy, his head full of white static. Geno’s touching himself now, legs braced wide, cock heavy and full in his grip. 

“Come on,” Sid says softly. “You’re good, G, you can come.” 

Geno lets out a long, shuddering breath and draws in another, his lips parting as if he’s going to speak. But no sound comes out. Instead he starts to come, in slow, drawn-out waves, his body curling inwards on itself like he’s bracing himself against a blow.

Sid slows inside him, and stills, his thumb stroking soothingly over Geno’s hip. Geno makes a small noise when he pulls out, but doesn’t stop him, only turns and draws Sid in towards him, wrapping his arms around Sid’s neck. 

They don’t kiss. Geno’s touching the nape of his neck, petting at his damp curls with his fingers, the gesture oddly tender. Sid closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at him. He jacks himself off in quick, efficient strokes, and lets orgasm hollow him out, leaving him aching, empty. 

“Come on,” Sid says, after. “I’ll drive you to your car.” 

_

Geno syncs up his phone to the Bluetooth system right away—for some reason, Sid’s car has always recognized Geno’s phone over his own—and queues up what sounds like Russian death metal, extremely loud and grating. Sid understands he’s being punished for something, but has the feeling that asking will only land him in deeper shit. 

It takes half an hour to get from the rink back to the bar downtown. Sid takes it maybe a little slower than he needs to, though Geno, for once, has no comment on his driving. There’s a parking spot halfway down the block from the bar. Sid cuts the engine, silencing the lead singer mid-tortured shriek.

“So,” Sid says. “I guess we should talk.” 

“Nothing to talk about.” Geno starts messing with the automatic window, rolling it down an inch and back up again. “No big deal. Just heat, right? Omega need help, alpha say okay, do favor.” 

It’s not like it’s news, but it hurts more than he’d expected, hearing Geno say it out loud.” 

“Right,” Sid says. “Yeah. I was happy to help, Geno. I just—I think maybe we shouldn’t have done it.” 

Geno says nothing. Sid can’t read him at all. His expression is blank, almost crushingly indifferent, like this whole conversation is boring him to tears. 

“It was good,” Sid says. “It was—I had fun.” He’s floundering a bit, but he forges blindly on. “I just, um. I think things are getting a little confusing.” 

“You want stop,” Geno says flatly. 

“I just don’t think—” Sid stops, swallowing hard. “I mean, come on, G. It’s not like this was ever going to be forever.” 

Geno says nothing for a long moment, a muscle working in his jaw. 

“Fine,” he says, and gets out of the car, slamming the door hard enough the windows rattle. 

_

And that’s that. 

It’ll be fine. Everything will go back to normal. Back to Sid’s old routines: no Geno turning up at odd hours to thrash him at video games, or to ruin his pans with his cooking efforts, or to throw popcorn kernels at him when Sid can’t stop dissecting the power play after their games. Sid’s spent years not sleeping with Geno and only a handful of weeks doing otherwise. Things will settle, eventually. He’ll reacclimate. 

They hit the road the next day, a long cross-country flight for a three-game stint on the West Coast. Geno shows up for the plane with only a few minutes to spare, and spends the whole time playing cards in the back like usual, fleecing the rookies and a couple of veterans who should know better. Flower’s watching Sid a little more closely than usual, but he doesn’t say anything. 

Sid turns down a couple offers to go out for dinner. He turns on the TV and flips through the channels while he waits for his steak to be delivered, landing finally on a movie he recognizes: some stupid action flick Geno loves, the one he used to watch night after night on the road his rookie year. 

He opens his texts to Geno. The last one is from a couple weeks ago, when Geno had come across someone selling gigantic pumpkins by the side of the road and bought out the whole stand. He’d sent Sid a picture of the back of his ridiculous little sports car loaded high with pumpkins, even though he knew perfectly well it took Sid’s phone ages to load even the smallest thumbnail image. 

_that movie you like is on,_ Sid types out, and then deletes it. 

He does watch the rest, though. It’s as incomprehensible as he remembers. 

_

They eke out a win over the Ducks and fly into San Jose early the next morning. They’ve got a night off, and after practice Kuni insists on dragging them all out to some place he likes near to the hotel. 

Geno sets himself up at the pool table in the back of the bar, striking up a conversation with a group of alpha guys in flashy suits who seem to be in town for a convention. He’d been sulky all through practice, but now his foul mood seems to have transmuted itself into an aggressive and focused geniality, all that single-minded competitive energy honed to a single purpose. 

Sid’s not an idiot. He knows what’s going to happen here. He’s spent years not watching Geno flirt with people in bars, and has it almost down to a science. 

So he has no idea why, when Geno’s loud laugh cuts through the noise of the crowd yet again, he pushes his chair back, stands up, and walks over to play pool. 

Geno’s busy lining up a shot, which conveniently involves bending over in front of the big blond alpha he’s been flirting with for the past half hour. 

“Geno,” Sid says.

Geno ignores him, and takes his shot. The guy casts Sid a measuring look. Sid can practically see him puffing out his chest. 

“You lost, buddy?” 

“Geno,” Sid says again, this time through gritted teeth. Geno makes a big show of straightening up, looking at Sid with an expression of exaggerated surprise. 

“Sidney,” he says, and leans into the guy’s side. “You meet Ryan?” 

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Sid asks. 

Geno considers it a moment. “No, sorry,” he says. “Too busy.” 

Ryan laughs at that. He slides an arm around Geno’s waist, pulling him into his side. “You want to get out of here?” he asks him. 

Geno hums. “Maybe you buy me drink first,” he says, fingers toying suggestively with the buttons of Ryan’s shirt. 

Ryan’s smirk deepens. “Really?” he says. “No offense, but you kinda smell like a sure thing.” 

Sid sees red. He moves towards the guy—to do what, he’s not sure, since the only thing Deadspin would relish more than Geno flirting with some alpha is Sid getting into a huge fight with said alpha over Geno’s honor. Fortunately, Flower’s suddenly at his elbow, a big sharp-toothed grin on his face. 

“Gentlemen,” he says. “I hate to interrupt this charming little scene, but some of us are waiting to use the pool table.” 

Ryan opens his mouth to say something—part of Sid dearly hopes whatever comes out is worth punching him over—but Geno seems to have gotten tired of his little game. “All yours,” he says, glaring at Flower, and shoulders past them, stalking off towards the door. 

“Hey, man,” Ryan says, and then mutters, “Fuckin’ bitch.” 

Flower catches Sid by the arm and wheels him away from the tables towards the bar. He’s still smiling, baring all of his teeth. It’s a little terrifying. 

“Sid,” he says. “What the fuck.” 

Sid scowls. “I had it under control.” 

“Right, of course,” Flower says. “Which is why you were two seconds away from whipping it out and pissing all over Geno to mark your claim. No—do not try to bullshit me, Sidney. I have no idea you’ve suddenly gone all hothead alpha over him, and I’m very sure I don’t want to know. But whatever’s going on with you two, you need to fix it. Now.” 

Sid looks back over at the booths, where the rest of the team is busy pretending like they’re not watching the whole scene unfold. They’re not doing an especially convincing job. 

“Fine,” he says, shrugging off Flower’s hand. “I’m going, okay?” 

_

He catches up to Geno in the hotel lobby, waiting near the elevators. Geno, when he sees him, starts mashing the call button with his finger. 

“Fuck off, Sid,” he says, when Sid gets close enough. 

“What is your problem?” Sid hisses, keeping his voice low. 

“My problem?” Geno says, in a furious undertone. “I’m not have problem, Sid. I’m at bar, have nice time, meet nice guy—”

“He wasn’t nice!” Sid says. “He was a fucking asshole!” 

“Maybe I like!” Geno says. “Maybe is my type!” 

The elevator doors slide open. Jordy’s standing there beaming at them, his jacket slung over his arm. “Hey,” he says brightly. “You guys forget something?”

“No,” Geno snaps, and Jordy glances between them. His eyes widen.

“Oh,” he says. “Okay. I’ll just—uh. See you tomorrow, then.” 

Geno brushes past him into the elevator. He starts pushing the close door button. 

“That doesn’t even work, you know,” Sid says. “It doesn’t make it close any faster.”

For some reason this seems to infuriate Geno more than anything else he’s said. “You know everything, Sid?” he says, rounding on him as the doors finally slide shut. “You so expert, know what kind guy I like, know how stupid button work—”

“I’m just saying,” Sid says, and Geno makes a noise like a wet cat, furious, outraged beyond bearing. He fists his hands in Sid’s jacket, shoving him up against the mirrored wall of the elevator. 

Sid freezes, staring up at him. Geno’s breathing hard, his face flushed pink, his eyes dark. Sid thinks about him going home with someone else, and hates it so intensely that for a moment he can’t breathe. 

_Pick me,_ he wants to say, but doesn’t. Instead he licks his lips, and watches as Geno’s gaze drops to his mouth, and lingers. 

_

Sid’s room is closest, two doors down from the elevator. He fumbles for his room key, Geno at his back, and pushes into the room, both of them shedding jackets and kicking off their shoes as they go. Geno grabs him by the front of his shirt and pulls him to the bed, pushing him down. For a moment they tussle furiously, silently, both grappling for the upper hand. Geno’s so 

“You don’t even like alphas,” Sid says, clawing at Geno’s belt buckle, and Geno bares his teeth at him in a snarl, lifting his hips so Sid can drag his pants down and off. The second he’s naked, he uses his weight to roll them over, pinning Sid down. 

Sid’s strong enough to throw him off if he wanted to, but he doesn’t want to. He’s furious, and maybe a little hurt, and he’s missed this so much. 

“Stupid,” Geno says, yanking Sid’s briefs down, “stupid, stupid, stupid,” and then he swallows him down. Sid gasps, hips rocking up off the bed. 

There’s no teasing, no finesse, just relentless suction. When Sid reaches out to touch Geno’s hair, Geno pulls off, scowling. “Don’t touch.” 

Sid fists his hands in the sheets as Geno blows him hard, and then as he straddles him, fingering himself open and glaring down at Sid the whole time. 

“Should we—condom?” he gasps out. 

“Don’t need,” Geno says, and then, with a glare that would quell a lesser man, “ _You_ need?”

“No,” Sid says, and whatever else he might’ve said is lost when Geno sinks down onto him. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his mouth soft and pink and half open, and Sid has to clench his jaw against the desire to surge up and kiss him. 

Geno rocks in his lap, grinding down, too shallow for Sid but just right for Geno, if the pink flush creeping down his chest is any indication. He’s chewing on his lower lip, touching himself lightly, almost restlessly, like he isn’t sure if he wants to come, or how. 

The air conditioner kicks on, sending a sudden draft of cold air wafting over them. Geno makes a low sound, his nipples drawn tight. He hunches forward, hand working faster, eyes screwed shut. 

“Yeah,” Sid murmurs, “that’s it, you’re so good, G, you’re so close,” and feels Geno tense. A moment later he’s coming, striping Sid’s stomach, his chest.

Then he’s rolling off of him, the mattress shifting as he slides off the bed. It takes Sid’s sex-stupid brain a minute to catch up. 

“Fuck,” he says. “Oh my god, fuck you, Geno, you can’t be serious.” 

Geno ignores him, pulling on his pants. Sid gets a hand on himself, desperately, Geno’s slick easing the way. He’s so close—close enough, almost, with Geno right there, the smell of him thick in Sid’s nose, his mouth, resting heavy on his tongue. 

Geno stands at the end of the bed, buttoning up his shirt, looking down at Sid. He looks haughty, indifferent, but his clothes are rumpled, his hair sticking up every which way, and Sid wants him so badly it makes his stomach twist. 

“G,” he gasps, “come on, just—”

“Tick tock,” Geno says in a bored voice, and that’s it for Sid: he groans and comes, hips jerking up into his fist.

He barely has a chance to catch his breath before Geno’s moving towards him. He leans over him, boxing Sid in—not kissing him, as Sid thinks for a single heartstopping moment, just invading his space, breathing sour beer breath into his face. 

“You right, Sid,” he says. “Don’t like alphas. Think you know everything, want control everything—”

“I was just trying to help!” 

“No, Sid.” Geno draws back. “Just jealous. You not want to bond, fine. But can’t say, ‘no, Geno, too confuse, shouldn’t do,’ and then fight other alpha in bar.” 

“You—what?” Sid says, blinking up at him. “What do you mean, I don’t want to bond?” 

Geno makes a frustrated noise, stepping back from the bed. “Sid, can’t be this stupid. Halloween, I ask you if you want bite, you say no.”

Sid sits bolt upright. “What?” he says, incredulous. “Geno, I was a _vampire_. You can’t just—we weren’t even dating!” 

For a second, Geno looks stunned—dazed, almost, like Sid’s landed a dirty hit from an unexpected angle, shoulder-checked him headfirst into the boards. Then his expression shutters. 

Sid feels a little dazed himself. “We weren’t,” he says, but more uncertainly.

“Right,” Geno says, his voice cold. “Just fucking. Thanks for clear up, Sid.” 

_

They lose to the Sharks. It’s brutal: a five-goal shutout. Flower gets pulled two minutes into the second period, and sits in his stall with his head down through the whole second intermission, not speaking to anyone. They take stupid penalties, and give up chance after chance on the power play, and get blown out of the water. Sid does the post-game scrum on autopilot, delivering the same tired answers. 

Nobody speaks on the shuttle to the airport, or as they board their plane in the dark. Sid’s exhausted, but even with the cabin lights dimmed he can’t shut his brain off, too wired and restless to sleep. He keeps thinking about Geno’s expression in the hotel room. Keeps replaying the night of the party in his mind, winding the tape back, trying to see what he’d missed. 

He catches Flower in the parking lot at the airport. 

“Dinner tonight?” he says. 

Flower looks at him. “You’re cooking,” he says, and then considers for a moment. “And if this is about the sorry state of your love life, I’m bringing Tanger. I’m going to need the reinforcements.” 

_ 

Sid crashes into bed and sleeps seven hours, waking up in the late afternoon. It’ll fuck with his sleep cycle for days, but he wakes up feeling a little more human. 

He makes pasta with red sauce, because it’s the one thing he can pretty consistently do well, and toasts some of the French bread from Flower’s favorite bakery in the oven. He gets out one of his nicer bottles of wine, too, not that he’s ever been able to taste the difference. 

Flower arrives at six-thirty, with Kris in tow. “Hmm,” he says, examining the wine label. “I’ll accept it.” 

“Thanks, Sid,” Kris says, taking the offered glass. 

They tuck in. Sid’s antsy, but he manages to make it through the salad course, and the first helpings of pasta. 

“So,” he says. 

“Here we go,” Flower says, but he puts down his fork, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “I assume you’re going to tell us why there’s suddenly trouble in paradise.” 

“That’s not—you make it sound like we’re, you know,” Sid says. “Together.” 

Flower exchanges a look with Kris. “And?” 

“We’re not,” Sid says. “I mean, we weren’t. And now we’re really not.” 

“Damn it,” Flower says. 

“I told you,” Kris says. “I’ll take my winnings in cash or check form.” 

Sid looks between them, blinking. Flower sighs. 

“I said you couldn’t possibly be that dense,” he says. “Kris here thought otherwise.” 

“You bet on it?” 

“That makes it sound crass,” Flower says. “But yes, obviously. Duper’s in on it too.” 

“Hang on,” Sid says. “How many people know?” 

Kris coughs. When Sid looks at him, he says, “Really?” 

“Sid, how do I put this delicately,” Flower says. “You reek, both of you. It’s not exactly news that you’ve been spending some, ah, quality time together this season.” 

Sid stares at him. “Everyone knows?” 

“Well, maybe not the betas,” Flower says, and then amends, “I mean—they might not have figured it out right away. And I seriously doubt anyone who doesn’t know the two of you well would guess, if that’s what you’re worried about. But neither of you is especially subtle. I’m pretty sure Geno scents your equipment when you’re in with the trainers.”

“Oh, he does,” Kris says mildly. “Once he growled at me for coming too close to your pads.”

Sid gapes at them both. Flower pours himself another glass of wine, and after some consideration, tops Kris’s off, too. 

“So,” Kris says. “I gather this comes as a surprise.” 

“We’ve been—uh, for a while,” Sid says, and to his surprise, feels himself start to blush. He forges on. “But it wasn’t serious. Or I didn’t think it was, anyway.” 

“Sidney,” Flower says. “You spent his heat together. Why wouldn’t you think it was serious?”

“It’s Geno,” Sid says weakly. “You know how he is. He’s not—he doesn’t, not with alphas.” 

“Neither of you is seeing anyone else,” Flower says. “You show up to practice reeking of each other five days out of seven. He dressed up like a Canadian soldier preparing for his burlesque debut—I can’t imagine where _that_ idea came from.” 

“He sings in the showers, now,” Kris puts in. 

“An assault to the ears,” Flower says. “A crime against taste. But we put up with it, because he’s our friend, and he’s happy. Sid, surely you must have noticed.” 

They’re both looking at him, expectant. Sid doesn’t know what to say. 

Had he noticed? For weeks—months, really, ever since the night Geno kissed him at the Cup party—he’s been so wrapped up in the tangled mess of his own emotions, that mix of lust and yearning and guilt, all the complicated things he feels for Geno and has for years. It had never occurred to him that Geno’s feelings might be just as tangled. 

Or maybe that’s it: maybe Geno’s desires were just more straightforward, simple in a way Sid had never thought to look for. 

“He asked me to bond,” he says, slowly. “On Halloween, during his heat. I didn’t realize what he was asking. And then—I told him we should stop, because it wasn’t going anywhere.” 

There’s a pause. 

“If that’s how you feel, then you can’t keep doing this,” Kris says gently. “I know you said it wouldn’t affect the team, but Geno’s part of the team too, Sid. I can’t speak for him, but if he asked you to bond—it’s not fair to him, or kind, to string him along.” 

_

After they leave, Sid cleans up the kitchen, washing the plates by hand instead of sticking them in the dishwasher. He thinks about how, just a week or so ago, Geno had driven his sports car full of pumpkins over to Sid’s, and carted in the two biggest ones, and bullied Sid into carving them together, right there on the kitchen floor. 

They’d put the seeds in the oven to roast after, tossed with paprika and garlic powder and more butter than their diet plan allowed—not that it had mattered in the end, since the seeds had burned while Sid was busy undressing Geno upstairs, and spreading him out on his bed, and blowing him just the way Geno liked, sloppy and wet with two fingers curled inside him. 

Sid’s known Geno for years now. And yet it’s only in the last few weeks that he’s let himself really know him, outside the familiar context of the rink: Geno after a bad loss, grumpy and wanting to stomp around for a bit, then have Sid pet his hair in front of the TV. Geno in his bed, hogging the blankets and making Sid yelp when he slid his cold feet up the inside of Sid’s calves. Geno at the kitchen stove, making his specialty—terrible eggs—and Sid eating them anyway, without even chirping him about it, because of how pleased with himself Geno looked when he tipped them onto Sid’s plate. 

He stands there for a long time, thinking. Then, finally, he turns out the lights and goes upstairs to get ready for bed. 

In the bathroom he splashes water on his face, then reaches for the toothpaste. The tube’s nearly empty, and, distracted still, he opens one of the drawers and starts rummaging through it. 

Then he stops. Tucked carefully away at the back of the drawer is a toothbrush—blue, with gold Cyrillic lettering on the handle. 

Sid stares at it, then has to sit down heavily on the edge of the bathtub. 

_

He leaves early for practice the next morning—early enough that when he pulls up to Geno’s house, that imposing brick monstrosity, he has to sit in his car for a while, waiting for it to be a slightly more acceptable hour for him to turn up unannounced. 

He’s only there for twenty minutes or so when someone raps on the window, so unexpected Sid almost jumps out of his skin. 

It’s Geno, dressed in flannel pajamas and his big coat, his feet shoved into fur-lined slippers. He doesn’t look pleased to see him. 

Sid rolls the window down. 

“Sid,” Geno says. “You stalker now? Maybe I call police, say help, crazy captain sitting outside, four in morning.” 

“It’s almost eight,” Sid says. “And I didn’t want to wake you up. But since you’re awake—”

“Go home, Sid,” Geno says. 

“Geno, please,” Sid says. “I need to talk to you. Just ten minutes, that’s all.” 

“Five,” Geno says, and strides back into the house.  
_

Geno leads him into the kitchen. He doesn’t sit down, or invite Sid to, just stands by the breakfast bar with his arms folded over his chest. 

Sid doesn’t know how to start. He looks around the kitchen for a moment, gathering his nerves. There’s stuff all over the counters—spice jars, a bowl of lightly spotted bananas, tall glass bottles of various cooking oils Sid can’t imagine Geno knows how to use. It’s not dirty, really, just cluttered in a lived-in sort of way, a glimpse of a domestic life Sid’s never really seen. They always sleep at Sid’s house; he’d never thought to ask why. 

“I found your toothbrush,” he says. 

Geno shoots him a wary look. “You say I use yours.” 

“Well, did you?”

Geno scowls, which means yes, definitely. 

“Listen,” Sid says. “That’s not—that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about.” 

Geno sighs. “Sid, I know already,” he says. “Don’t have to say again. You have big regret, wish we not do, bad for team. There, okay, it’s finish.” 

“I didn’t know we were dating,” Sid says, and Geno flinches, almost imperceptibly. “I should’ve known. I think maybe I was the only one who didn’t.” 

Geno’s silent for a moment. Then he says, without looking at him, “Sid, I’m just like—little bit stupid, okay? Have wrong idea. It’s okay, we forget.” 

“I thought you were making fun of me,” Sid says. “On Halloween, when you asked. Or I don’t know, that you just thought it was just a game. It was serious for me.” 

“Serious for me, too,” Geno says. “I ask you for heat, Sid. Why you think, if not serious?” 

“Because you’re—I don’t know!” Sid says. “Geno, you’ve always said you don’t want an alpha, or a bond. You’re always saying that in press conferences.” 

“You tell press everything, Sid? Say how you feel, always?” 

“You never told me, though,” Sid says, a little helplessly. “I thought you were just experimenting.” 

Geno deflates a bit at that. “Okay, fine,” he says. “But I’m like, little bit scared, you know? You act like it’s big secret, Sid. Not want team to know, not want people to think. Can’t drive together, can’t touch in public. I think maybe, if I say how I feel, you tell me no, is just sex.” He picks at the edge of the counter, avoiding Sid’s gaze. “When you say you want stop, I think, okay. So maybe you want one kind of omega for—have good time, have fun, but want different kind for bond.” 

There’s an old hurt in his voice: not raw, but not quite healed over, either, still tender to the touch. Sid steps a little closer. 

“That’s not how I felt,” he says. “I know how much shit you get from the press, and the fans, and I just—I didn’t want to make it worse for you. I thought I was protecting you, by keeping it quiet.” 

“You decide, Sid?” Geno says, eyebrows raised. “Not ask, just decide? Maybe you think, you alpha, you know best.” 

Sid opens his mouth, ready to protest, but something in Geno’s expression draws him up short. Because that was what he’d done, wasn’t it. Made the choices for them both, at every step of the way, whether or not he realized he was doing it. 

He swallows. “You’re right. I’m sorry, G. I should have asked. I shouldn’t have assumed I knew what you wanted.” 

Geno studies him for a moment, his gaze intent. Then he leans forward. “Sid, you know why I say, not want alpha, not want bond? Is not, alphas smell so bad to me, or not want to be with person I love. Is because I’m not need alpha to control everything, to tell me yes, can do, can’t do. I like beta too, so is no big deal to say, not want.” 

“Yeah,” Sid says heavily. “I get that.” 

“And maybe I’m want to show,” Geno says. “Everybody ask all the time—ask, ask, ask, if I want bond, when I’m get alpha. But we win Cup, Sid. And like—I win Conn Smythe, you know? Don’t need bond, don’t need stupid pills. I score lots, help team without. Can’t say anymore I’m just distract, I’m make team fight.” 

“You’ve never been a distraction,” Sid says, feeling a hot rush of anger on Geno’s behalf. “You’re the best person I’ve ever played with. We couldn’t have won the Cup without you.” 

“Yes, I know,” Geno says, looking pleased. “But maybe it’s in my head still, little bit. But then we win, and I think, is stupid. If I say, oh, can’t have alpha, can’t have bond, I’m still let them decide, you know? So I decide, okay, stop worry.” He grins. “And then I see Sidney Crosby—best captain, very pink from sun, laugh a lot, and I think: okay, Zhenya. Time you kiss.” 

“I’m glad you did,” Sid says. “I’m really glad. I liked you so much, Geno, but I just—I tried not to think about it, for a long time. And then I tried not to hope too much, because I wanted it too much, and I didn’t think you felt the same.” 

He pauses, and takes a deep breath. 

“Geno,” he says. “I’m really thirsty.” 

Geno looks at him oddly. “So get Gatorade,” he says, gesturing towards the fridge. “You think I’m maid?”

“No,” Sid says. He fumbles in his jacket pocket, then holds out his hand to Geno, the rubber fangs resting on his palm. “I’m—I really need it.” 

Geno stares at the fangs. 

“You were right,” Sid says. “I’m greedy, Geno. I want it all the time. I want to keep you forever.” 

He’s no good at big romantic gestures—not the kind that Geno admires, anyway. He’ll never rent a live tiger for anyone, or put on a massive fireworks display, or cover a bed with ten thousand rose petals. But he’s steady, and he’s true, and if Geno will let him Sid will love him, with everything he has in him. 

“Just, uh, to be clear,” he says, after a pause. “I mean I want to bond with you.” 

“What?” Geno says, eyes widening. “Sid—you not vampire?” 

“You’re really not funny,” Sid says, but he can’t keep the smile off his face. Geno laughs.

“Okay, Sid,” he says. “But no, we not bond.” 

“Oh,” Sid says, feeling suddenly wrong-footed. “Okay, if you—” 

“Not yet,” Geno says. “Now I know you think we not dating, I’m like, okay, it’s cheat, you know? Can’t make too easy—just bond, no work. Want to see what Sidney Crosby’s like, when he’s boyfriend. Need dinner, need flowers, need complain about hard job, you pet hair. Need blowjobs—lots.” 

“You want the full experience, eh?” Sid says, and Geno grins at him, a little sly. 

“Can start now,” he says. “You ready?”

Yeah, Sid thinks. He really, really is.

**Author's Note:**

> title is from tegan and sara's "drove me wild," specifically: _you carried romance in the palm of your hand / you called the plays for us / you clung to self-restraint, you followed your plan / you put the brakes on this_ , because doesn't that feel so sid?
> 
> come talk to me on tumblr @ ticklefighthockey.


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